That Old Fisherman

That old fisherman,
He sits at the shore every evening,
Waiting patiently,
Waiting quietly.


That old fisherman,
Staring blankly into the horizon,
Memories flashing back,
With all that was left upon.

That old fisherman,
His family gone in separate ways,
His children left with such haste;
Yet he waits,
For their return,
Yet he waits,
For their comfort.


That old fisherman,
His old wooden boat creaks,
Them paddles and nets with holes in it;
His time is up,
His body and mind weak,
Sinking into that sunset breeze.

How he missed those moments,
Being together as what was once called 'family'.


How he missed those moments,
Those quarrels they had,
Those laughter that they shared.

How he wished still,
To protect them,
To care for them as he did.


How he wished still,
He'd have the strength to stand up,
And walk towards them as he would.

How he missed those moments,
As time fights against his will;
How he missed those moments,
Those unforgiving seconds just won't stand still.


That old fisherman,
Alas he lives alone,
His love and passion for those he cared,
A story left to unfold.

With his last breath,
He stood up, he really did,
Walking towards the shore,
His love and life hence, flows with it...

Nickel Low